Porcelain
by satoru-13
Summary: “It sounds prettily enough, and the melodies are all alike; yet there seems something wanting, I cannot exactly tell what.”　Denmark/Norway/Iceland or Iceland/Norway/Denmark, depending on how you view it. ONESHOT.


**Title:** Porcelain  
**Author:** satoru_13  
**Characters/Pairings:** Denmark/Norway/Iceland, or Iceland/Norway/Denmark, depending on how you view it…  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Warnings:** None in particular.  
**Prompt****:** Fairytales—any characters, but Denmark in particular, in situations reminiscent of Hans Christian Andersen's tales.  
**Words:** 5147

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia. The story is based on "The Nightingale" by Hans Christian Andersen, .. Some parts of the fic are direct quotes of the translated fairytale, and I disclaim any ownership of them.

A/N: This was a part of the Secret Santa prompts at nordic5_xmas on LiveJournal, originally written for halcyon_queen, and reposting here.

(I'll leave Iceland in this fic up to your own interpretation, since I'm not quite sure what happened to him myself, QAQ. Also, the story is separated into six parts, the first and fourth from Denmark's perspective, the second from Iceland's, and the third, fifth and sixth from Norway's...it's a little scrambled, OTL'''. Hence the characters are referred to differently in different parts.)

_Once upon a time __there was a noble forest, with lofty trees, sloping down to the deep blue sea, and great ships sail__ing__ under the shadow of its branches. In one of these trees lived a __n__ightingale, who __had a beautiful voice like tiny glass bells. __Travellers from every country in the world came to the city of the emperor, which they admired very much, as well as the palace and gardens; but when they heard the __n__ightingale, they all declared it to be the best of all. And the travellers, on their return home, related what they had seen; and learned men wrote books, containing descriptions of the town, the palace, and the gardens; but they did not forget the __n__ightingale, which was really the greatest wonder. And those who could write poetry composed beautiful verses about the __ni__ghtingale, who lived in a forest near the deep sea._

_The story I am going to tell you happened a great many years ago, so it is well to hear it now before it is forgotten._

In this particular, marvellous kingdom, necessity and superfluity have always had a hazy border – the great hall, with intricately carved pillars and an arched ceiling touching the sky, with walls and floors alike made of smooth, gleaming porcelain, is lit by the light of a thousand lamps on this special day. Large, colourful blooms clipped from the gardens, each unique, are lined up in vases along the corridors, with delicate silver bells attached to them as for guests to notice them when they walked past. On this particular day, the hall is filled with the entire court, all in great gold-trimmed overcoats and wide frill-lined skirts made of rich cloth embroidered with patterns, in so many different textures and styles and colours they were almost reminiscent of flowers themselves.

–in the centre of the hall is placed a pedestal of gold, shining grandly under the light, the subject of growing curiosity and expectation.

The lord of this kingdom is a young man with looks barely over twenty, spiked hair as the sun and vigorous eyes as the sky, and a temperament as unpredictable as the ocean. Now, he makes a gesture in the air with a gloved hand, smile playing on his lips, and the oaken gold-gilded doors are heaved open by half a dozen uniformed men on either side – the youth is lead in and heralded; he bows, stiffly, and walks to the pedestal, before the eyes of the king and his whole court.

He is an endearing little thing; out of lily-white skin shines eyes like jewels the colour of the sea, and framing his face falls soft tresses of fine golden strands. From what Denmark hears he is from a wondrous kingdom over-the-sea – despite that his raiment is of a dull grey, unnecessarily plain for one of his status, and a heavy travelling cloak covers his slender form.

It is hard to put a word on him, not sweet, not pretty, yet a little short of beautiful; _Doll-like_, Denmark settles on, because he supposes that is the purpose the boy has come to serve in this court – he has heard the tales of the wondrous voice, and the beautiful melodies it spins. _(He feels the boy's steady gaze on him, and in the seconds that their eyes meet Denmark is surprised at how intense they are; that icy cutting edge is miles apart from the glass chips in a doll.)_

"Sing for me and for this court," He says casually. "I have heard much of your talent." He nods to him again, and every eye is turned to the grey figure on the pedestal.

When he begins to sing Denmark does not notice the tears in his eyes until they roll down his cheeks in droplets, gather at the edge of his face and drop down into his lap. The song rises and the boy seems to grow in statue with it, the inexplicably soft voice ringing hauntingly in the grand hall, and when the beautiful notes come to a fluttering end the court breaks into thundering applause.

Standing in golden light of the lamps, the boy seems impervious to the noise, grey cloak wrapped around him, pointed face void of expression. Denmark smiles – something in the boy compels it – but he is not sure whether it is from fondness or exasperation.

When the applause finally dies away Denmark stands and proclaims to the court, "The singing is a lovely gift," His powerful voice reverberates in the hall, but seems plain compared to the spectacle the boy has made. "You shall have my gold slipper, to adorn your fair neck." There seems to be an intake of breath in the crowd, for this was a great honour. The silence becomes strained as it stretches, and the boy is waited upon to make his answer.

When the boy finally opens his mouth, his lips hardly move and yet his voice is level and unbroken – Denmark thinks that this is the first time he has heard him speak, and that his speaking voice was no less melodious than his singing one. "I have seen tears in a king's eyes," He says softly. "That the richest reward I can receive, and a sufficient honour for me."

Denmark's smile does not disappear. "No, I do insist. You can remain at court, to sing to me."

His sea-blue eyes flicker. "My song sounds best in the green wood, my liege." He says quietly.

The smile widens. "No matter. You may sing here."

There is a silence, and at the end of it the boy bows, as stiffly as when he did upon entering the hall. "I am grateful for the king's generosity. I thank you greatly, my liege."

_(He knows of the brother his cherished 'Nightingale' has, in the faraway kingdom over-the-sea. It is not as if he did not, despite his notorious ignorance. For that reason that he constructs a cage, a beautiful one of silver, with graceful loops and spirals and patterns instead of bars – against this cage the beautiful, pitifully monotonous 'Nightingale' looks sadly plain in contrast.)_

_From his cage he sings his enchanting song–––––––––  
_

He likes to believe that nothing has changed, but it is hard to ignore the growing sense of absence. It is hard, on one of Norway's painfully rare visits, to welcome him in and try to disregard the trail of twelve servants trailing behind him, and the thin lines of twelve silken threads looped around his wrist _(–because really, they might as well be a dozen jailers, chaining him down with heavy manacles and a dozen sets of lead links)_.

_She was now to remain at court, to have her own cage, with liberty to go out twice a day, and once during the night. Twelve servants were appointed to attend her on these occasions, who each held her by a silken string fastened to her leg. There was certainly not much pleasure in this kind of flying__._

– most of all he detests that golden cross nestled in the soft blond hair, because with it Norway just looks so _different_. It is almost like a marker, of sorts, and that thought is one Iceland wants to banish from his mind forever.

"Good morrow, dear brother." Norway greets, conversationally.

The corners of Iceland's lips turn up in a half-hearted jest. "You need not waste time greeting me when your time here is so short. Come inside, sit." He leaves Norway to seat himself at the small wooden table by the window, and moves to make them both a cup of tea.

When he returns he notices that Norway has not taken his grey cloak off.

He sets the tea down, and for a moment entertains himself just with the way that Norway wraps his slender, gloved fingers around the red-blue flowered pattern on the white cup. He pulls the only other chair from under the table and sits; a blink of an eye later Norway is staring at him and he doesn't realise that what he has thought has slipped out from his mouth. "You don't have to leave so soon," He says. "You don't have to go back."

He's not sure whether he has said something wrong, because Norway replies whilst gazing at the ripples in his tea, "It is an honour the king has bestowed on me, and I thank him from the bottom of my heart for."

And then maybe it is the blatant lie in his voice, maybe it is the way he half-smiles with such self-ridicule, maybe it is plain selfishness; something in Iceland chips his immaculate self-control and he says sharply, "It is disgusting of that man to think of this as a service."

"He is the king," Norway says mildly.

"A despicable king," Iceland snaps, and at this the twelve servants begin to murmur, begin to look at him with their hostile glares and whisper, whisper among themselves, of the rude little boy the 'Nightingale' insists on visiting. (He is sure he would have received a harsh strike across his face had Norway not been present, and waved those infuriating servants, so blindly loyal to that god-forsaken king, off into reluctant silence.)

And then there really silence, before one of the servants touches Norway lightly on the shoulder and motions gently to the door. "If you would please, honoured 'Nightingale', it may be best to return to the palace."

Norway stands much slower than he should have; in a flash Iceland scrapes his chair back and is at other side of the table, snaking his arms around Norway's shoulders in an embrace, and there is nothing more he wishes than to stay like this, to be unchanged like this. _Yet he knows it cannot be granted_ – and so he leans into the curve of the blonde's neck, "Sing for me, Norway." He whispers.

Norway's hands come up behind his head and long fingers tangle in his silver hair; he draws breath and in that position he sings. It is a short song, a disappearing melody quickly forgotten, leaving the listener with no memory of it other than that it was beautiful – and yet it is one unlike any other he has sung, confined behind the exquisite bars of that loathed cage. When the last note falls from the air everything remains still, and it takes a while before any of them remember that the 'Nightingale' has to leave, leave from this dirty little lodging, back to his privileged position beside the King's bed.

"It is in our best interest to escort you from here, honoured 'Nightingale'."

Iceland loosens his hold and Norway walks to the door; before Norway can walk past the doorframe Iceland raises a hand to Norway's smooth face. "Take care, Norway." The blonde youth flinches at the last word, and a wrinkle deepens on Iceland's brow. "Norway, is something bothering you?"

Norway is strangely hesitant when he answers. "It is nothing, just…" He laughs, mirthlessly, hopelessly. "...it has been so long since I was last called that name."

_(He arrives back at the palace, and once more he is the 'Nightingale'…_

"_Welcome back," Denmark smiles. "Your return was long-awaited, my dear little bird. Sing now your music, so that you may please my ears." He bows, and is guided by the twelve hands placed on his arms, hands, shoulders, back into the cage wrought so delicately from silver.)__  
_

It is a breathtaking thing, with skin as porcelain – as pale, as smooth, as flawless, as cool to the touch as lifeless porcelain is; hair not golden but elegant silver; copper eyes staring glassily from a perfectly-sculpted face. Clothing it is a fashionable coat of wonderful satin with a pattern of meandering flowers, cuffs trimmed with gold and with fine white lace; under it a wrinkleless waistcoat and a shirt with a collar of frills.

On its fingers it wears rings with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires – large gems top the centre of its cravat, and the buckles on its shined shoes. Around its neck hangs a piece of ribbon, on which was written, "The Kingdom of Iceland's 'Nightingale' is poor compared with that of the Kingdom of Denmark."

_(When Norway first lays his eyes on him, he wants nothing more than to curl up into a ball and shout and cry and scream, and wonders how, just _how_ could that boy be so stupid?! What good will it do for you to come when I can bear it for both of us, why are you here, just go back, go back, PLEASE JUST GET OUT–––––_

"_Go," The doll whispers, and Norway swears he just wants to wring him by the neck.)_

It is – he is – an artificial 'Nightingale', made to look like the living one, and all who have seen him exclaim most appraisingly of his beauty – Norway too, finds him quite beautiful. When wound up, he elicits a voice so very similar to Norway's own, that the king and the court marvel at the hidden mechanisms.

"Now they must sing together," the lords and ladies of the court say, "and what a duet it will be." However, despite their similar voices, Norway finds themselves falling into discord, not even much longer after they had began – for Norway sings in his own natural way, a wandering, floating melody which led a way through forests, over oceans; but the other sings only waltzes.

The king frowns, and looks to the music-master. "That is not a fault," The old man replies under the prompting. "it is quite perfect to my taste."

And then the doll _(for now he looked nothing more than a doll, skin cold and eyes blank, a doll who could only sing when wound up)_ sings along; he was accepted with as much success as Norway remembers himself being – of course, since he was so much prettier to look at, sparkling in the light like bracelets and breast-pins. Thirty-three times they wound him up and he sings the same tune, without any sign of being tired; the people are glad to hear him again, but the king is the one who intervenes.

"Wait," Denmark says, mirth dancing in his sky-coloured eyes. "The song of the living 'Nightingale' should be just as revelled. Where is he? Let us ask of him a song to please this court."

But where was he? No one had noticed him when he had slipped from the back door, shrouded in his grey cloak, hood lowered over his face; he goes back to his own green woods, back to his kingdom over-the-sea.

_(When his flight has been discovered finds out the king is less angry than saddened, and spends the next few days in an uncharacteristic melancholy. __"What strange conduct,", __he says with eyes lowered, and wonders what he has done wrong.)_

"_But we have the best bird after all," said one, and then they would have the bird sing again, although it was the thirty-fourth time they had listened to the same piece, and even then they had not learnt it, for it was rather difficult. But the music-master praised the bird in the highest degree, and even asserted that it was better than a real 'Nightingale', not only in its dress and the beautiful diamonds, but also in its musical power. _

"For you must perceive, my chief lord and emperor, that with a real nightingale we can never tell what is going to be sung, but with this bird everything is settled. It can be opened and explained, so that people may understand how the waltzes are formed, and why one note follows upon another."

"_This is exactly what we think," they all replied, and then the music-master received permission to exhibit the bird to the people on the following Sunday, and the emperor commanded that they should be present to hear it sing. When they heard it they were like people intoxicated; __t__hey all said "Oh!" and held up their forefingers and nodded, but a poor fisherman, who had heard the real __n__ightingale, said__ – _

"It sounds prettily enough, and the melodies are all alike; yet there seems something wanting, I cannot exactly tell what."

The courtiers blame the 'Nightingale', and complain loudly of what a very ungrateful creature he is.

By a decision not quite his own, Denmark banishes the once-prized boy from his kingdom, and places the doll on a gold-gilded armchair with maroon cushions, close to his bed. _(Sometimes, when he rises in the morning and is hazy from his sleep, he can fancy the doll his gone 'Nightingale'._

_Sometimes he wakes up and sees the 'Nightingale' there beside him, face as perfect as he remembers, those twin sapphires burning in his eyes – he wonders how he could have ever thought him doll-like – and then he blinks, and those eyes turn glassy and the doll is there, and he is left with only his memory.)_

A year passes, and by this time the king, the court, and all the other people living under the kingdom's rule, know every note of the doll's song, know every little turn, every trill, every change in key or in rhythm or in tone, or in volume or in tempo or in style. The music-master writes an amazingly difficult work just on the doll, in twenty-five volumes, and yet all the people lie and say they have read it and have understood it, for fear of being thought stupid and having their bodies trampled upon.

He _knows_ the doll and the single melody it sings, and for that same reason it pleases him better – for in Denmark's eyes it is not what he can predict, but what he control. And maybe, he thinks, he never truly _controlled_ the beautiful 'Nightingale'; captured, maybe, trapped, maybe, but never controlled. _(And he supposes that is the real beauty of the 'Nightingale'.)_

It happens one evening when all seems well, after Denmark dismisses his servants and begins to wind up the doll, so that the music may guide him to sleep – _the small, decorated spring is placed on the left side of the doll's bare chest, no doubt where the his heart would be, if he had been a living boy. Sometimes it is unnerving to reach inside that secret compartment, because it feels as if that doll has been alive once before, and gave up where his heart belonged to become what he is._ Denmark turns the little switch ten times exactly, and slides under the sheets into bed.

The music is slow to start as it always is, the one-two-three rhythm slowly picking up speed as the machinery inside begins to turn and move along.

And then, something inside the doll sounds.

Denmark looks up from his pillow; now a spring cracks, and he rushes to get up. He strides over to the doll, still dressed in his nightclothes, and by now there is strange whirring as the wheels spin frenzily. The doll's entire chest is vibrating now, and the cover to the compartment containing the spring is bumped by the mechanisms under, and bumped again, and again, and Denmark is reminded so greatly of a beating heart; yet the doll's eyes remain as glassy as they were before – and then the music slows, slows until finally, coming to a creaking stop.

He calls for a watchmaker, immediately; after long discussion and examination through that restless night, the doll is put into something like order. From now on, it is to be used very carefully, as the barrels were worn, and it is near impossible to replace them without causing harm to the music the doll sings. He is now only to sing once a year – and even that was dangerous for the works inside it.

_(He is so used to seeing the doll now, the 'Nightingale' of old appears to him no more. Sometimes he wakes up and sees the doll beside him, the thin eyebrows slanted up and face twisted in anguish; he sits up and the doll is as stone-set as he was the night before.)_

Five years pass, and then a real grief comes upon the land – the young king, previously so robust, energetic and bright, now lies cold and pale on his bed, so ill that he is not expected to live. Already a new king has been chosen; being fond of him, the people who stand in the street ask the lord-in-waiting of how the old king is faring – they receive no verbal reply, instead a shaken head.

Cloth is laid down on the halls and in the passages, so that not a footstep is heard, and all may be silent and still. So white and stiff he lies on the gorgeous bed, with long velvet curtains and heavy gold tassels, the whole court is under the impression he has passed away; every one abandons him where he is, to pay homage to his successor.

Silently, the window slides open on its hinges, moonlight shining into the bedroom, onto the dying king and the lifeless doll – and all of a sudden he finds that there is a strange weight on his chest; he can scarcely breathe and begins to wheeze.

He opens his eyes, and sees Death's white grin leering at him, with his majestic battleaxe in one hand, his beautiful red-white Dannebrog in the other, and his jewelled crown balanced crookedly on its cloaked head. Crowding in the room and swarming around his bed, peeking curiously through the velvet curtains, are strange heads, some hideous and frightening, and others lovely and gentle-looking.

His good and bad deeds – for that is what they are – stare him in the face, now that Death sits at his heart. "Do you remember me?" "What about me?" "Of me?" They ask, one after the other, on and on, dragging up the things he has chosen to forget, and brings drops of sweat to his brow.

"I know nothing," Denmark croaks, and by now he has not the power to lift his hands to his ears. "Music! Music!" He orders, for the absent servants to hear. "So that I may not hear what they say!" But still they continue, Death nodding mockingly as they go.

He is desperate now, "Music!" He shouts again, and looking wildly around the room he spots the doll, silent and blank as ever, and cries, "Lovely doll, you cannot say I have not treated you well; I have given you honour in this land, and gold and costly presents, and have even ordered my golden slipper hung around your neck. I beg it of you now, sing!"

The little doll remains voiceless, staring straight ahead with its glass-eyes – for there was no one to wind him up, and for that he could not sing even a note.

With cold, hollow eyes Death stares at the king, a fearful stillness filling the room – and suddenly through the door floats in a song, _of a quiet churchyard where white roses grow, where __an __elder-tree wafts its perfume on the breeze, and fresh, sweet grass is moistened by the mourners' tears__,_ and the shadows grow thinner and thinner, and Death himself listens, for he knows what the voice sings of.

He walks in now, door swinging open smoothly, footsteps silenced by the cloth over the floor. _(It is somewhat difficult to see the vibrant man in this state–)_ He has stopped singing, and when he has crossed the span of the room he stands before the king's bed, and regards Death calmly, gazing him in the eye.

Death is still grinning. "Go on, boy," He prompts. "Go on."

"For that will you give to me the magnificent battleaxe, and that rich banner? Will you give me the king's prized crown?" Norway asks. And so Death cackles, and gives up each of these treasures for a song; he continues singing.

Then Death longs to return and see his garden – he floats out through the window, the creatures with him, in a cold, white mist.

He can see the surprise in the man's eyes when his glazed eyes focus, and finally realises who it is, standing in front of him – and moves to beside the bed, pressing a cool finger across the king's lips.

"Not now, my liege. Sleep, so your health and strength may return to you; I will sing to you again."

He settles on the edge of the bed, swathed by silk sheets, and with his voice forms a song – a lullaby – and as he sings the king falls into a sweet slumber. When Denmark awakes, strengthened, refreshed, and blinking the sleep from his eyes, the moon is already replaced by the sun in the sky. Not one of his servants have returned, for they all believe him dead; only Norway still sits beside him, and sings.

_(It is a different song now, as it always is with Norway, but Denmark is surprised for that he has never heard Norway sing of this in court, ever – he sings of __a noble forest__with lofty trees, sloping down to the deep blue sea, and great ships sail__ing__ under the shadow of its branches__ – in a beautiful kingdom over-the-sea.)_

When Norway concludes his song Denmark pushes himself up from his pillows of down. "I thank you deeply, my dearest 'Nightingale'. I know you well – I banished you from my kingdom once, and yet you have charmed away the evil faces from my bed, and banished Death from my heart, with your sweet song."

Norway bows, stiffly – he has tried to forget what it was like to be called by that name.

Denmark's eyes are bright now, joyful, excited. "How can I reward you? You may have anything that you name. Hell," He laughs. "if you wanted half the kingdom I'd give it to you, in gratitude of saving my life."

There is a silence, and then Norway says slowly. "I require no such gift, my liege."

Surprise blossoms over Denmark's face, for in his mind the answer must have been outrageous. "Wh-What?" He stammers. "You may have anything…_anything_! Look," He flips aside the covers, swings out of bed, and picks the giant battleaxe from the floor. "I can fashion you something like this," He grins, holding it upright. "Scaled, of course, you're so little–" Eyeing the blankness on Norway's face he reaches for the knobs on his closet and swipes it open. "I can replace your closet with clothes fit for a king," When Norway is still seemingly uninterested Denmark says eagerly, "If you want me to pay in gold I can, just name the sum."

The silence lasts longer this time, and at the end of it Norway finally parts his lips. "You have already rewarded me," He murmurs. "on that day, when I first drew tears from your eyes, with my song to you. These are the jewels that rejoice a singer's heart." He finishes quietly, "I love your heart better than your crown."

Denmark seems taken aback; when he speaks again his tone is beseeching. "Then you must always remain with me," He begs. "Sing only when it pleases you – and I will break that doll into a thousand pieces."

He is quick to move; in the blink of an eye the battleaxe is wielded in his hand, and he is posed to strike – and so he would have, should he not have found Norway standing in front of the poor, tortured doll, both arms thrust out wide _(and for the first time Denmark sees what he is wearing underneath that grey cloak, a wonderful laced coat of a soft blue)_, eyes as steady and as frozen as the calm arctic sea.

"He did very well as long as he could," He replies. "Do not destroy him for all he has done."

Denmark recoils slightly, and wordlessly places his axe down.

"Keep him here still." Norway continues. "I do not plan on living in this palace – let me come when I like. I will sing from your bedside as I did before, and not from the cage. I will come, so that you may be happy, and have thoughts full of joy."

He takes a breath, and goes on._ "I will __sing to you of those who are happy, and those who suffer; of the good and the evil, who are hidden around you. The little singing bird flies far from you and your court to the home of the fisherman and the peasant's cot. I love your heart better than your crown; and yet something holy lingers round that also. I will come, I will sing to you; but you must promise me one thing." _

"_Everything," said the emperor, who, having dressed himself in his imperial robes, stood with the hand that held the heavy golden sword pressed to his heart. _

"_I only ask one thing," she replied; "let no one know that you have a little bird who tells you everything. It will be best to conceal it." So saying, the nightingale flew away. __  
_

When the king is gone from the room – no doubt to greet his servants and his people, to inform them of his miraculous return – Norway turns to the doll, sitting motionless on the cushioned chair, like he had been placed there, six long years ago.

_(He opens the little secret compartment, embedded inside the left side of his chest. The little jewelled spring is cracked and tarnished; and then the tears drop from his blue, blue eyes, for he does not know how he can do this, how to change the porcelain back to warm skin, how to change the cracked spring back to a beating heart.)_

The pupils in the glassy eyes move, slowly, to look at him; the head follows, turning gradually, strenuously, porcelain joints grating against each other – the hand scrapes along the chair, and with much effort the doll lifts his arm, until the tips of his rigid fingers touch the side of Norway's cheek.

He has to try a few times before his mouth can form words, and his voice will not come back to him. Finally he whispers, "Why…? _Why did you come back?_" He rasps, those copper eyes staring so blankly, that face staring so emotionlessly, even though Norway knows the doll, the _boy_, the _precious_ boy, must be crying too.

"I couldn't leave him," He says, voice as soft as the snow that falls, in their wonderful kingdom, over-the-sea. "Or you, dear brother."

There is no reply, and even though he looks just as empty as he did moments before, Norway can tell he is gone.

_(When he finally leaves the room, the doll's arm is still raised, and his eyes are still staring – _

"_I__t sounds prettily enough, and the melodies are all alike; yet there seems something wanting, I cannot exactly tell what."__)__  
_


End file.
